


transcripts from another universe

by orphan_account



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Gen, cecil is crawling inside my head, help somebody please, please help me, snippets and bits
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-17 23:40:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You begin to read the summary. The summary's letters begin to curl and burn around you as if a newspaper tossed into a fireplace. You wonder why you have begun to hear a slow, lilting voice in your head instead of reading words on a computer screen. Your index finger makes a conscious click onto the title, but you do not register this, only the melody of a music box playing far, far away from here. </p>
<p>Do not turn your head. They are already here, tapping on your window gently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	transcripts from another universe

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to Night Vale(missing segments). 
> 
> Recommended to play at 2 am, and/or that moment right after you make the stunning realization that even though you are surrounded by human pulses, you are completely and utterly alone.

A Night Vale tourist stands at the doors of the Fun Complex, listening to the mesmerizing sound of cotton candy whirring inside the bowling alley. The night, is as always, dark. It is as dark as the inside of a ram's skull as a shiny black beetle skitters its way inside through the eye cavity to burrow in for the cold desert evening.

_Welcome_   
_to_   
_Night Vale._

The Sheriff's Secret Police has sent me yet another report saying whoever is drawing chalk pentagrams on Old Woman Josey's front yard should immediately continue and insist. They encourage whatever Satanic vandals seem to be getting up to these late-night hi-jinx, as the community continues to be unhealthily-yet lovingly-fascinated with the angels who take up residence in her old, musty shack, that occasionally smells like Kraft cardboard boxes and grows high heels in place of roof shingles. Old Woman Josey is very distressed by this sudden strike against her residents, but after a hushed whispering session with a hooded figure in the Arby's at the traffic light, has agreed not to steal anymore teenagers from the Night Vale High School. She has especially promised to leave Michael Sandero, the two-headed quarterback of our lovely team, alone. He is a prime suspect in the case, which obviously means that we must all turn a blind eye to his youthful indiscretions. After all, it was not so long ago that we were all a big bundle of flesh, blood and hormones, sewn together by spiders' webs and authorized to carry automatic rifles. Ah, adolescence.

Now, on to sports. There is a girl on a track. It is not a track anywhere near here, but nonetheless, it is indeed, a track. She prepares to tie her shoes and win first place in the 500 meter race. She reaches down to loop the aglet of her shoelace around the circle she's formed. As she reaches down to do this, she chews on a Wheat-and-Wheat-by-product and contemplates the fact that the gravel is melting underneath her. She is being claimed by one of the underground giants of the city below us and will later emerge as a champion of their race. A vile traitor. We will string her up by the Arby's.

City council would like to remind the lovely citizens of Night Vale that proximity to the dog park is strictly forbidden and considering it is extremely discouraged, if not outright dismembered. You may notice the howling from the place of which I just mentioned, which may not theoretically exist in any hypothetical scenario, has increased in volume and sibilants. You may notice that as you come closer, the sounds begin to be less incoherent and more recognizable. Disregard whatever they may be singing to you. Forget the shine of the brightest light you ever remember sipping tea under, tear down your blinds and clasp your throat as if you are being strangled. Failure to obey these orders will have you reported down to the Applebee's, or alternatively a front for the Sheriff's secret police, or children, who all curiously remind you of versions of yourself when you were young, will crawl through the grate of which within you have hidden your old toys. They will not do anything with them. Trust in my words, dear listener. Or do not.


End file.
